


Speak up.

by bioloyg



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, M/M, Pining, Telepathy, Winter Falcon, could I make it anymore obvious?, he was a bird, he was a soldier with a robot arm, i'll think of more tags later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 16:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9557894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioloyg/pseuds/bioloyg
Summary: "Outer Kiev, repurposed Hydra base, September of 2019. This is right about the time and place that everything goes to shit."~Just a little something about boys in love and telepathy fucking things up.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 2017, I DO actually still write things. It's been a bit, I was on writing vacation. Anyway I hope you enjoy this thing I threw together to kind of get back into the swing of things.
> 
> As usual, unbeta'd

**Hear me out.**

All it takes is prolonged touch. That hand on your back that lingers just a little too long, those times when you accidentally fall asleep on the couch together. Just add meaningless bickering, gradual friendship, and working together and simmer on low over the span of two years. That’s how you create confusion. A blurring of feelings and perception. For more potent results, throw in a dash of being trapped together for hours, certain that each one could be your last, and for a little kick add some personal conversations where secrets are exchanged. Mix all _that_ up, and you’ve created a muddied lust that, when strained, becomes something much more serious.

It wasn’t always like this – muddy and confusing, that is. There were days where Bucky could look at Sam and feel nothing more than a passing blip of cordiality. Very straightforward. They were on good terms because they had to be, not because they chose to be or because they respected each other. But their recipe for disaster was plucked apart before it could begin.

Before long that forced cooperation turned into begrudging respect because of their months on the run together. After that, the two of them became neutral allies, finally on similar ground, and then it bloomed into friendship. It became the kind of friendship that allowed them to fall asleep when in the other’s company – feeling safe. It became the kind of friendship that made Bucky worry when he and Sam had to part ways for missions, or when memories were dredged to the surface.

It was _more_.

All these little tiny things strung themselves together to form a pattern of intent, and that’s about the same time Bucky’s thoughts fell off their original course. Instead of thinking about offering Sam coffee whenever they find themselves sharing a morning, now he thinks about kissing Sam just before he wakes. Now he thinks about catching Sam shirtless outside of the med bay, thinks of Sam underneath _him_ instead of those eerie fluorescent lights. Everything that was once unassuming has been replaced by thoughts of how Sam sounds when he’s bitten or whether he likes to play rough. Bucky will see Sam pour milk into a bowl of cereal and rather than think about asking for the jug for his own cereal, he thinks about kissing Sam’s neck until he’s so distracted he forgets all about breakfast.

It’s all very abrupt, this little detour his mind has taken. It’s not completely out of left-field, but it’s still jarring considering the fact that Bucky went from lackadaisical daydreams of kissing Sam on the porch of a house in the countryside to thoughts of Sam riding him into a bed.

A poker face is one thing. Bucky can be impassive; he can be a blank slate and even someone else completely, but that doesn’t stop the _rest_ of his body from betraying his secrets. At this point, sweat pants are off limits whenever Sam is around. The day Bucky imagined fucking Sam in front of the others and got off on it was the day he forbade himself from being alone in a room with Sam in anything other than black jeans tighter than a one-way street downtown.

Despite all of this, Bucky has managed just fine. There have been a few close calls, but none close enough to make Bucky wary. Nothing has gone amiss, Sam is none the wiser, and Bucky has his thoughts all to himself.

Until he doesn’t anymore…

~

Outer Kiev, repurposed Hydra base, September of 2019. This is right about the time and place that everything goes to shit.

It was supposed to be a cut and dry mission. Steve and Natasha were all set to check both the North and East wings while Sam and Bucky checked the South and West. All they had to do was find potential prisoners, differentiate between them and the _willing_ test subjects, and capture their true target: Dr. Markovsky.

Simple.

What they weren’t expecting, or rather what _Bucky_ wasn’t expecting, was the Neuronal Linkage Network (NLN) device. And he definitely wasn’t expecting it to be set off either. Actually, neither Sam nor Bucky thought it was detonated at all. Sure, the doctor jammed his wiry little fingers into the button that looked like trouble, and yeah the lights along the base suddenly turned red, but there was no sound or flash or bang. To the untrained eye it looked like the machine had failed. To the untrained eye, it looked as if the machine was designed to control the minds of unwilling participants. But, that wasn’t what it did at all – a suspicion that was confirmed almost immediately upon the machine’s arrival to the compound.

So… what _did_ it do?

~

_I wonder if he’d ever let me touch it, maybe braid it._

The voice filters into the room where Bucky is eating cereal, so quiet Bucky thinks he might be hearing things. His brow furrows as he strains his ears and turns around.

No one.

Then it happens again, _I bet it’s soft. Lord knows he doesn’t wash it every day, it’s gotta be._

Bucky lets out a sharp breath and drops his spoon into the bowl moodily. He turns abruptly, hoping to catch someone, but the space around him is still empty. For a moment Bucky is afraid he might be slipping back into the kind of mental space he’d been in – no, that’s not important. He rules out that possibility when he hears the voice again. His doesn’t sound like that, and he’s not as fixated on hair as this disembodied voice seems to be.

When Bucky tries to ignore it, he finds the effort to be completely wasted. Blocking his ears works fine for the outside world, but what about a voice that seems to be emanating from his very own mind? Some foreign thought visiting and taking up space.

_If I asked he would probably let me braid it._

There’s an audible sigh that Bucky can almost feel and then, _I wish I had a reason to hate him. I expected him to be so much worse but he’s just – he isn’t._

_Fuck, I’m in deep. How did this even happen? We hated each other two years ago!_

_He probably still hates me._

Bucky gives up on trying to ignore the voice. It’s a waste of mental energy. Instead, he takes a deep breath and tries to pick apart the quality of the voice, its timbre and the richness of it, but it’s perfectly nondescript. The only way Bucky can think to describe it is by comparing it to one of those automated voices programmed into telephones. The inflection is there, but it doesn’t sound _real_. It’s definitely a voice, but it’s unnatural, as if warped by something in the way.

To make matters worse, the harder Bucky focuses on the sound, the more confounding it becomes, and just when he thinks he’s got it – it vanishes. The last thing he hears is an irritated, _Stop thinking about him. He’s not thinking about you, so move on_.

It seems to echo in Bucky’s mind, those last words, like they’re important or something. Like they were emphasized by whoever was speaking them. Rather than address this newfound issue, be it ghosts, wandering thoughts, or Bucky slipping, he finishes his now soggy cereal and ignores it.

He tells himself it’s nothing more than an overworked mind and goes back to bed to try and sleep again.

~

“Hey. Have you been – feeling weird since that trip to Kiev?” Sam asks, his tone too forced to _actually_ be casual. He sits down on the bench just behind Bucky and leans forward, resting his arms on his thighs.

Bucky shoves a hunting knife into one of the holsters on his thigh and looks at Sam. “Define weird.”

Sam frowns, like he was hoping he wouldn’t have to get into it. There seems to be quite an internal struggle before he eventually says, “Forget it.” He sighs as he rubs a hand over his face. “Probably need to get more sleep.”

“Don’t we all.”

Sam looks away from the locker door he’d been staring at intently. “Where are you headed?” he asks as he gestures towards the scattered weapons along Bucky’s person with his chin.

There’s two guns, a knife, and some other small things shoved into his pockets that Sam doesn’t know about. Bucky shrugs and kicks his locker closed. “Bruce said he needed someone to go back to Kiev to dig around those labs – see if there was anything we missed. Notes or something.”

“And you’re going _alone_?”

Bucky levels Sam with a look. “I’m a big boy, Sam. I don’t need a handler.”

“When did I say ‘handler?’” Sam asks, his tone dry. “That base was pretty big. If you’re not gonna to take another person for back-up, then at least take someone to cut down on the time.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Your concern is heartwarming, but I think I’ll be okay.”

 _Stubborn **asshole,**_ the voice says, cutting through Bucky’s own thoughts. He only comes back to the actual speaking world when he hears Sam say, “Are you even listening to me?”

Blinking away the fog, Bucky says, “No,” and walks toward the exit. Maybe if he walks fast enough he can outrun the invading noise swimming in his head.

“Typical,” he hears Sam mutter. “What does Bruce need those notes for, anyway?”

“The machine,” Bucky answers absently as he rattles his brain in an attempt to shake the voice out. “He said it was damaged so badly he can’t figure out what the hell it does.”

“No shit.” Sam snorts. “Bullets’ll do that.”

Bucky turns to look at Sam as he walks. He goes from his own troubled thoughts to getting lost in a thought about Sam’s keen eyes, and right as he does, those same keen eyes hone in on him.

“What?” Bucky asks.

“Nothing, I – nothing.” Sam shakes his head slightly and stops. Before Bucky can stop too, he says, “Be careful, would you? I won’t be able to get any sleep if you go dying on us.”

“Aw,” Bucky coos. “You worried?”

“No,” Sam replies without hesitation. “I just know I’ll be the one going to collect your dumb ass.”

“This isn’t my first time,” Bucky says with a wink; he laughs when he sees Sam roll his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

“Try not to die until you set the jet to autopilot, would you?” Sam calls out as Bucky gets further away. Bucky’s pretty sure he hears a whispered comment about Bucky having a death wish.

~

 _He better watch what the fuck he’s doing_.

Bucky stalls in place, his wide frame squeezed tight by the metal surrounding him. There’s no way that came from inside the vents, there’s not enough room. That and he hasn’t seen, heard, or been forewarned about anyone’s presence. Half the rooms are burnt to a crisp anyway – agents burned any physical data they could get their hands on to keep their secrets just that. Secret. Still wary, Bucky closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and then listens for any footsteps in the room below him. There’s nothing. With that and his mind settled, he kicks the metal grate covering the vent and drops down into the room.

It’s just as they left it, he and Sam. There are pieces of metal from the weird mind machine, shell casings from the gun fight, and smatterings of blood now dried up. Bucky’s boots crunch as he walks through a bit of broken glass from one of the fancier cabinets that fell. As he gets closer to the docking station where the machine had rested just before Markovsky ripped it from its place, Bucky hears, _It’s like you think you’re untouchable just because of who you were before all of this_.

Bucky’s head snaps upward. He looks toward the entrance of the room, but the place is silent – practically a ghost town – which makes the voice all the more irritating. And terrifying.

 _Well you’re **not** , _it says as it picks back up.

_You’re so – whatever. Do what you want._

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut. Clenches his teeth. When he opens his eyes again he’s still alone, and this time his thoughts are too. Thank god. He goes about his search of the lab, the next lab, and even the next two before he hears anything again. This time it’s different though, more real.

 _Please stay safe_.

Bucky stops in his tracks as a shiver runs down his spine. These intrusive thoughts have gone from offhand comments one might hear in passing to things that almost feel personal. Like someone is actually saying them to Bucky. He looks down at the half-burned booklet he found in a trick drawer hidden in one of the desks a few rooms back with a malformed theory in mind. Anything that was written towards the edges of the pages is gone for good, but not all of it is ruined. He looks back toward the direction he came from and then down at the booklet again. “Maybe…”

He shakes his head and keeps walking. “No. He already ruled that out,” Bucky mumbles to himself. His footsteps echo ever so slightly as he walks down the empty hall. The emergency lights toward the end of it flicker. With nothing else in the other rooms, labs, or anywhere else Bucky tears apart, he decides it’d be best to leave. Especially with this newfound voice cluttering his ability to be mindful of his surroundings. Or at least as mindful as he prefers to be.

Back in the quinjet with his destination programmed and ready, Bucky unclips his seatbelt and reaches for the booklet he grabbed earlier. There’s some sort of Cyrillic text on the cover, but it’s been licked by fire and warped into something unreadable. Bucky carefully opens the front cover and for a moment he almost expects a dedication, like he’s reading some ordinary novel on a plane to Milwaukee. That’s not the case.

The first few pages look to be gibberish meant to throw off the passing intruder who might think they’ve found something of interest. Further inward, bits and pieces become intelligible, but not in as much as to allow anything to be deciphered. It’s not until the middle of the booklet that Bucky discerns a pattern _to_ the cipher. As far as he can tell, this one uses letter transposition as well as letter substitution. Something like this might as well be a Sunday morning crossword puzzle for Bucky, but that doesn’t change the fact that there are bits and pieces he’s going to be stumped on for a while.

He has to establish what rules were given in the cipher, what base language was chosen and whether or not the Cyrillic text means it’s something Slavic in origin, and what order things are meant to be read. Is it right to left, or left to right? Should the page be read backwards, or forwards? Forget horizontal reading too. For all Bucky knows, the words could be written vertically and snake up and down. So maybe this is more of a Monday morning, hungover with a migraine kind of crossword puzzle. That’s the reason they have analysts back at headquarters though. But… there’s something about handing over the book to hands unknown doesn’t sit well with Bucky. He’s not even sure he wants to give it to Bruce given what kind of secrets might hide within the script.

Bucky looks back down at the damaged pages that lie within his grasp and makes a decision, and it’s one he hopes he doesn’t regret.

~

As time passes, the intruding voice gets louder and louder. Bucky has already determined that the voice is not one of his own, both by himself and through a professional. He also knows that whatever reason he’s hearing things has to be because of the mind machine that was partially destroyed. There’s no other explanation even half as plausible yet. The only thing Bucky _doesn’t_ know, or rather things, is how to block it out or where it’s coming from. _Who_.

The voice isn’t speaking to him, nor is it trying to sway him in any way, it just _is_. In fact, there are times when Bucky feels like an interloper. The mystery person’s thoughts range from mundane questions to visceral opinions packed with emotion so strong Bucky can physically feel it. The only constant is that Bucky only seems to hear the voice when this person is thinking about someone else. He never hears their passing thoughts on what they forgot at the grocery store, and he doesn’t know how they feel about coffee with more cream in it than _coffee_. Everything is decidedly _, narrowly_ focused on what seems to be the same person. One person. And Bucky has yet to figure out who anyone in this equation is, or why they’re so important to the owner of the mystery voice.

It’s late. Bucky is alone in his apartment sprawled out on his bed, staring at the ceiling. All he wants to do is sleep but between the course of his day and the ghost voice, Bucky can’t seem to wind down. His work on cracking the cipher was exhausting enough that he _should_ be able to, but there are forces at work making it impossible.

A gentle touch ghosts across Bucky’s lips just before he hears, _Would he kiss me back?_

Bucky exhales, long and drawn out. Those “forces” are physicality. With the progression of time the voice has not only gotten louder, but he can feel the things the voice is talking about too.

Bucky tosses and turns in his bed, but freezes up when hands unseen brush up against his chest. Again, the voice appears out of nowhere, saying, _Would he let me close?_

 Those same hands track up his neck, and as Bucky closes his eyes he can almost feel fingers in his hair. Part of him revels in the touch. It’s not often he lets anyone close, even under the pretense of mindless bodily pleasure, so when he does let someone near everything feels like electricity. He’s incredibly aware of all feeling and sensation. The only person Bucky dreams about letting that close right now is Sam – which is what makes this so unbearable at the same time.

This stupid voice that’s been haunting him has only served to make Bucky’s feelings for Sam even worse. Or worse in their severity. You see, Bucky _agrees_ with this voice. He knows exactly how they feel – knows that burning need to reach out for someone. The problem is, he also shares this person’s fear of being frozen out of their life completely. It’s such a delicate balancing act: love. Lean too far in one direction and you fall, and whether or not there’s a net to catch you depends on who you’re falling for, so it seems it’s best to stay centered and not move at all. Keep it to yourself.

But that internalization doesn’t stop Bucky from imagining the phantom touch being Sam’s. It doesn’t stop him from slowly rutting against his bed when he’s experiencing the force of this person’s kiss – how strongly they feel. And it certainly doesn’t stop him from getting frustrated when the feeling disappears into thin air without warning. The only thing it’s stopping him from is sleeping it would seem.

Bucky lets a sharp breath out and his face is warmed by the recoil as his pillow disperses the air. He tries to focus on that. The warmth. Maybe if he focuses on that he can ignore how hard he is right now. Maybe if he focuses on that he can pretend he isn’t thrilled by the idea of Sam touching him. As usual, he has no such luck. Not with his mind off on a tangent of its own about – well, _things_. Things Bucky will ignore!

Tomorrow…

~

“ _Hey_.” The voice knocks Bucky out of his dreams. He sighs, long and drawn out, and grabs one of the pillows beside him to cover his head. He’s _not_ doing this right now. Especially not after staying up until three in the morning cracking a code in some half-burned book.

“ **Bucky**.”

His death grip on the pillow above him loosens and his muscles fall slack. It’s not – that’s not _the_ voice, but the inflection… Bucky pushes himself up and turns toward the sound and is mildly surprised by what he finds. “Sam?”

Bucky’s eyes track over the other man’s body, confused. “How did you get in here?” He looks at the old digital clock by his bed and then rubs his eyes. “And why are you here at seven in the morning?”

“You gave me your spare key when I needed to lay low after the Belarus mission, remember?” Sam tosses the key at Bucky.

“Yeah for _emergencies_ ,” Bucky lilts. After a yawn, he asks, “Is that all you came here to do – drop off a key? Because if so, there’s this place called SHIELD where we work together. I’m not sure if you remember the building, but it has a **big** emblem on the –”

Sam lets out a frustrated noise. “That’s not – no. I’m here because I want to know what you found when you went back to Kiev.”

Bucky’s brow furrows. “Why do you care?”

“What are you hiding something?” Sam’s eyes narrow ever so slightly.

“I’m not hiding _anything_. I didn’t find anything of importance.”

Sam straightens out then. “But you found something.”

“Yeah,” Bucky deadpans. “Dirt, rubble, and a couple of dead rats. Now can you get out so I can go back to sleep? I was up late last night.”

“Decoding this?” Sam asks, holding up the charred booklet.

Bucky lets out a sharp breath and then wets his bottom lip. “If you knew, why’d you ask?”

“I wanted to know if I could trust you – if you trusted _me_.”

Bucky grits his teeth. “ _Sam_ –” He’s stopped by a terse shake of the head.

“What does it say?” Sam looks down at it with disgust.

“I don’t know,” Bucky replies, and that’s not a lie. He’s close to figuring it out, but he doesn’t know anything more than the fact that it’s a manual of some sort.

Sam doesn’t seem to buy that though. “If you’re going to lie can you at least be convincing? You’ve had plenty of practice, it should be easy.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Bucky hisses. He drags himself to the side of his bed and gets up, standing right in front of Sam. “I don’t know what crawled up your ass, but you don’t get to come into _my_ apartment and accuse me of lying at _seven in the goddamn morning_.”

“It’s not an accusation if you’re _guilty_.”

Bucky groans and steps away. “I said I didn’t know what it says in the book, not that I wasn’t trying to figure it out.”

“Why hide it at all?”

“Do **you** trust the people at SHIELD yet?”

Sam falters for a moment but before Bucky can count his victory Sam says, “I trusted _you_. I trust Steve.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Will you – stop being difficult right now. It’s too early for this shit. And don’t think I haven’t noticed how personal this seems to be to you. What fucking difference does it make if I didn’t tell you about the book, huh? What could you possibly need it for?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Sam spits back.

“Well I’m asking _you_ because you’re in _my_ bedroom. You could’ve taken the book and left, but you didn’t; you woke me up, so spit it out already.”

Sam tosses the book onto the bed and backs out of the room. “Forget it.”

“Oh no, no,” Bucky says as he follows Sam’s shrinking figure down the hall. He blocks Sam just before he gets to the front door. “You wanted to talk, now we’re talking.”

“Move.”

“No.” The word scrapes past Bucky’s teeth. “What. Is. Your. Problem.”

Sam tries to shove him out of the way and reaches for the handle, but the movement results in a childish slap fight. “ _You’re_ my problem.”

“And yet you came to my apartment,” Bucky grits as Sam jabs his fingers into his ribs.

He grabs Sam by his wrists. “Stop.”

“You started it,” Sam hisses as he tries to pull his arms away.

Bucky dodges Sam’s knee and pushes him up against the nearest wall. “ _You_ started it, I’m finishing it. Now tell me what you really came here for.”

“The real reason?” Sam scoffs. “You know –”

“Don’t bullshit me, I know when you’re lying.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“ ** _Sam_.** ”

“Fine!” Sam shouts. “You want to know why I came here? The **real** reason.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “No, I’m holding you up against a wall because I wanted your mom’s apple pie recipe.”

Sam lets out a frustrated groan that turns into a gravelly huff. “I need – can you let me go?”

“Are you gonna try to run?”

“What am I your prisoner?” At Bucky’s look Sam lets out a heavy sigh and says, “ _No_.”

Bucky lets his wrists go and backs away. In fact, he turns away completely and heads toward his kitchen. “Explain,” he orders over his shoulder before disappearing to make coffee. He hears Sam follow, albeit reluctantly.

“I needed to know if I was – or if that machine was…”

Bucky sets the can of coffee grounds on the counter. “I’m gonna need you to elaborate.”

“ _I’ve been hearing things!_ ” Sam snaps. “When I’m alone I hear things, and I needed to know if I was – I needed to know if that machine we found was why, or if I –” He trails off and rubs his hands over his face. “Forget I mentioned it.”

“What kind of things?” Bucky asks absently. The measuring cup in his hand almost falls to the floor, but he sets it down in time. The room feels like it’s spinning.

Sam looks up, eyebrows scrunched. “What difference does it make?”

“Just – does it sound like someone talking to you or is it something different?”

Sam takes a step backward and his back hits the wall. He leans up against it and says, “Different. Like someone’s thoughts.”

“Like you’re listening to something you’re not supposed to be.”

Sam’s eyebrows furrow farther, and Bucky can hear the way he cracks the knuckles in his thumbs from clenching his fists so tight. “But –”

“Specific,” Bucky finishes.

Sam shrinks backward, suddenly tense, but before Bucky can ask what’s wrong he hears, _It’s you, isn’t it?_

Bucky’s eyes widen and Sam’s narrow in response, keen like a bird’s. “It **_is_**.”

“What is?” Bucky asks, playing stupid. Maybe he heard that wrong. Maybe he just thought he heard it.

“I know you heard that,” Sam says, getting closer now.

“Heard _what_?”

 _Me talking without actually talking you thickheaded freeze pop!_ The not so mysterious voice yells. Sam glares at Bucky with this determined look in his eye.

Bucky stares right back. _Glorified pigeon._

Sam jabs a finger into Bucky’s sternum. “You _knew_ something was going on and you didn’t say anything.”

“What are you, _surprised_? What was I supposed to do, go tell Director Fury I think I’m hearing voices? I’m sure that would’ve turned out great.”

Sam turns away, jaw clenched. “We’re taking the book to Bruce.”

Bucky scoffs only to be met with Sam’s piercing gaze again. He stares back, unbothered, and says, “You think he can read that? You think _anyone_ on base can read that?”

“We have a department for this. It’s their job to crack codes.”

“No, it’s their job to decrypt information that’s hidden between the lines of inventory sheets. It’s their job to translate languages we can’t read or have never seen before.” Bucky pauses a moment, searching Sam’s eyes for any shred of disagreement and when he finds nothing but irritation he says, “It was _my_ job to break ciphers, and I had to know twelve languages to do it. **I’m** deciphering it, end of story.”

“What makes you think you’ll be any better at cracking it than they will? They’re _analysts_.”

“Decades of experience with a Cyrillic alphabet that extends beyond formal usage.” With that he steps past Sam and into the other room. “I’ll see you on Wednesday. You know the way out.”

The front door slams shut a few moments later. It takes everything in Bucky’s power not to punch a hole in his table.

~

 _Bridge of consciousness_.

The words stare at Bucky on the sheet of scratch paper, taunting almost. Part of him feels like he willed this into existence, what with his search for an answer to the intruder in his head. But… part of him also recognizes that he couldn’t have made this shit up if he tried. The translation’s a little bit rough, but even if it had the flow of 16th century prose it wouldn’t be any more palatable than it is now. Which is to say: not very.

_The use of this machine allows communication beyond voice and sight. Those subject to its resonance will form bridges of consciousness with their peers. This resulting mind bridge allows thought to travel beyond its point of origin and into the mind of another. So long as the subject thinks of the receiver, their thoughts will bridge the gap between. All others will be unaware._

Bucky reads that once more. When nothing changes, he closes the book, goes out for a bit, runs until his legs burn, and then reads it again when he comes back. Still, the words remain the same: _So long as the subject thinks of the receiver…_

Bucky sits on the book for three days after he decodes the mess of symbols and their orientation on the pages, thinking. In those three days, he tries to come up with any other possible meanings that could be derived from the words – tries to find the path he walked off of and got lost in.

It doesn’t make sense. And yet…

 _sigh_.

Bucky gives the book to Bruce the following day. He makes no mention of its inner contents to Sam, not even when asked. Instead, he confirms Sam’s guess about the machine’s involvement. He says, “You were right,” instead of, “Was it really me you were thinking about all those times?” And when Sam asks “What next?” Bucky says, “Bruce is working on it,” instead of, “Your thoughts about me were so strong that I **_felt_** them. Did you feel mine too?”

These words unsaid haunt Bucky once he’s alone – and he prays they’re not words Sam overhears. There’s been nothing but stereo silence on Sam’s end. Not a single thought good, bad, or indifferent. It’s quiet enough that Bucky almost misses the background noise in his mind. At least those thoughts were positive (most of the time). Now all he’s left with are his own, and those are confusing at best and dark at their worst. He can’t drown them out by focusing on the way Sam thought about pulling his hair when they kissed. He didn’t even know that it was Sam thinking it at the time, but _he_ thought of Sam, and knowing that Sam might’ve been thinking of him…

No. There’s no way.

Bucky doesn’t read into it, get his hopes up, or even acknowledge it. He thinks, _This will work_ and _everything will be fine_. So – why is Sam looking at him like that from across the conference room table at their meeting the next morning? His eyes are narrowed, not in anger so much as intense thought. It’s the same look he gets on his face when he dreams up contingency plans mid-mission. Serious. And it’s all directed at Bucky, like he’s some puzzle to be solved.

Their little mind connection issue has yet to be sorted out, but the line has been quiet so long that Bucky almost startles when he hears, _You are such a predictable asshole, you know that? I don’t even know why I’m surprised by you anymore._

Bucky’s brow furrows, which earns him a quizzical look from Steve. He brushes it off with a shake of his head and then thinks back in Sam’s direction. _No telepathy at the dinner table, **honey**. The grown-ups are trying to talk._

A sharp pain radiates up Bucky’s shin just before he gets a response. _That shouldn’t be a problem for you, considering how **childish** you are._

Bucky slowly turns to Sam and smiles, all the while thinking, _The only one being childish here is you, chickadee. Kicking people underneath the table? That’s very fifth grade of you._

Sam’s grip on his pen tightens enough that a stress line appears in the plastic. _Maybe I wouldn’t have to stoop to your level if you were an actual adult about anything._

 _Would you spit whatever it is you’re so upset about **out** already? It’s not like anyone can hear us, you don’t have to beat around the bush._ Bucky kicks back and smiles as soon as Sam winces.

Sam stands up, pushes his chair back, and says, “I have something to take care of. Steve, mind filling me in later?”

“Uh, sure,” Steve replies, looking a little confused.

The director hardly glances at the exchange, and Sam barely acknowledges Bucky on the way out. Regardless, Bucky hears, _Your place. Six o’clock._

~

For a while Bucky tries to figure out what reason Sam has to be upset with him this time, but then it occurs to him that they never really stopped being irritated with each other in the first place. Sam was upset that Bucky didn’t mention the book – understandable. Sam was also upset that Bucky refused to give the book to Bruce or anyone else – also understandable, but Bucky feels his reasoning was sound. And that’s not to mention the whole lying by omission part – something which Bucky doesn’t feel the need to apologize for.

What would he have said anyway?

Bucky rubs his hands over his face and threads his fingers through his hair. He rests his hands there, atop his head, and sighs. If he had told Sam – he just… Bucky didn’t want to run the risk of seeming unhinged. Not to the team, and definitely not to Sam. Sam’s favor was hard enough to win with _normal_ conditions. With Bucky’s luck, Sam would think he used the machine to spy on his thoughts – which wasn’t (and isn’t) the case at all.

Quite a ways into this train of thought, far too late to play it off as something else, Bucky realizes that in thinking of all the reasons Sam might be upset with him… every bit was most likely broadcasted to Sam.

Bucky slowly closes his eyes and lets out a defeated groan. He takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment before listening for the nondescript voice inside his head… Nothing. _Complete_ silence. So, either Sam didn’t hear any of that (that being word vomit), or he did and he thinks Bucky is a complete idiot and an absolute asshole. Bucky’s hoping for the former and not the latter. But again, Bucky doesn’t have the best track record where luck is concerned.

Of course, no sooner does he accept that fact he hears, _I’ll be up in five._

Bucky looks at the clock nearest him and lets out another groan, though this time it’s more pained than anything. He’s gonna hazard a guess and say that Sam coming up at 4:52 instead of six o’clock probably means that Sam heard something Bucky thought. Or all of it. Sure, Sam doesn’t know that in order for the bridge of consciousness to form the thinker has to be thinking of the receiver – but it wouldn’t exactly take a rocket scientist to figure out who the subject of a thought is given enough context. And there was more than enough context.

Way more.

 _Open the door_.

Bucky looks up just in time to hear the three solid knocks against the door to his apartment, and since self-preservation is the last thing on his list of concerns he thinks, _Ask nicely and maybe I will._

Of course, the returning thought he gets is far from nice, but what really matters is what Sam says out loud. “Bruce showed me the decoded transcription of the booklet.”

Bucky’s fingers waterfall at his side, a nervous tick. He’s starting to regret not giving the book to the analysts. “And?”

“Open the door.”

He does, albeit reluctantly. As soon as it’s shut again Sam leans up against it. He’s got this look in his eyes like he’s amused and annoyed all at once. It’s a look Bucky has become accustomed to, but there’s a slight nuance to it today, much like when everything is moved one inch to the left. The same configuration, but a slightly different placement.

“Were you ever going to show me the booklet?” Sam asks. He’s got his arms crossed, and his hands are buried in the excess material of the maroon sweater he has on.

Bucky clears his throat. “If it was important.”

“It _was_ important. You knew it was important the second you picked it up, otherwise you wouldn’t have taken it.”

“You asked if I would have shown it to you. My answer is yes, if it was important. But since you broke into my house and found it first I didn’t have the chance to do that.”

Sam rolls his eyes and pushes himself off the door. “I used your key.”

“For a non-emergency.”

“Don’t pull that shit with me, Barnes. You’ve broken into my house before.”

Bucky huffs and looks up at the ceiling. “We’ve gone over this –”

“Yeah, yeah. You needed all three USBs in order to piece the map together. We’ll call it even. But don’t act like I didn’t give you the chance to mention the book when I was here.” Sam raises his eyebrows, like he’s got Bucky cornered.

“What part of ‘if it was important’ are you confused about, because when you broke in –”

“Used your _key_ ,” Sam interrupts.

“When you _used my key_ I had no idea what was in the book at all.”

“But you knew it was important,” Sam counters.

Bucky wets his lips. “I knew it was _something_.”

Sam nods, satisfied. “And what about when you gave it to Bruce?”

The look on Sam’s face after he asks makes Bucky question how he should answer, if at all. “What about it?”

Sam shrugs and starts to walk slowly, not in any particular direction, just ambling about. “I just think it’s funny that you’d omit something like that.”

“Omit _what_?” Bucky asks, short.

 _The part where we can only hear each other if we think about **each other**._ Sam looks up and releases his arms. The sleeves of the sweater fall from where they were pushed up to the elbow. _Or how you can **feel** it when someone thinks about touching you._

No sooner does Sam say that a chill runs down Bucky’s spine, following the phantom hand. Bucky clenches his jaw and lets out a short breath, finds a way to deflect the conversation away from _that_. “I didn’t think you needed me to read to you. You _are_ an adult after all.”

“I didn’t need you to read to me,” Sam replies, his tone just shy of sharp. “But I would’ve appreciated the update.”

“I gave you one,” Bucky says, slowly heading towards the other room as he speaks.

“ _Bullshit_. You were purposefully vague.”

“You read the book anyway.”

“I wanted to hear it from **you**!”

Bucky freezes in place. _You heard plenty_.

“Didn’t hear if you meant it.”

Bucky lets out a hollow laugh. “Did _you_? All those times you thought about how frustrating I was or how much of an ass I am, the irritation you radiated. Sure, lemme just turn back time so I can tell the guy that hates me _how much I **want** him_.” Bucky’s voice grows louder towards the end, but it tapers off once he realizes what he’s said.

“You obviously weren’t listening,” Sam says. _If you were, you would’ve heard **why** you frustrate me so much._

“I heard enough.”

Sam lets out an annoyed huff. “Hearing and listening are two different things.”

“What do you want me to say?” Bucky asks, exasperated.

“I want you to tell me if you _meant it_.”

Somewhere along the line Sam got close enough to Bucky to touch. Arm’s length. That doesn’t mean they _are_ touching, but they could. Bucky could reach right out and pull Sam _even_ closer. Bridging emotional gaps is a little bit different than those of consciousness though. There’s no machine for letting yourself be vulnerable, and even if there was it wouldn’t be worth the risk…

Bucky swallows the lump in his throat and tries to speak, but what comes out is a quiet, “Did you?”

_What do you think?_

Everything kind of slots into place then, and not because Bucky was given a piece he’d been missing, or because he finally found the right configuration. It’s because he lets Sam in at the same time Sam lets _him_ in. All their thoughts flood together into the space between them, syncing up and harmonizing. All of the _you’re fucking annoying_ ’s to the _please be safe_ ’s. It’s so much that Bucky feels short of breath, and yet that doesn’t stop him from grabbing the excess material of Sam’s sweater to drag him into a kiss.

 _Thank god, I thought I was gonna have to spell it out,_ Sam thinks as they kiss.

Bucky grins in the middle of one press of the lips and the next, and then pulls away. “You could have said something.”

“I didn’t know it was _me_ you were thinking about.”

Bucky drags him in for another kiss, thinking, _Who else?_

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this and you're not already a member of my totally sick cult, come follow me [@zamnwilson](http://zamnwilson.tumblr.com) on tumblr!
> 
> Feel free to leave any comments, whether they be keyboard smashes or the entire script from Bee Movie™ <3


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